When the drunk, large-and-in-charge Mexican man grabbed my phone, texted one of my coworkers, and then yelled to me, "NO TEXTING! JUST DANCING," I thought of two things almost simultaneously: "Dude, give me back my phone, you weirdo," and "I am SO blogging about this."
You may be wondering to yourself, "Why was Christine dancing with a large-and-in-charge drunk Mexican man?" Well, I can assure you - I did not do that on purpose. All I wanted to do was see a good concert and enjoy some country music! The American Country Music Awards are in Vegas this year, and they take place on Sunday. As a build up to that event, there was a slew of free concerts downtown last night. It was advertised as "Vegas Goes Country." Many big names were there, and people can't resist an opportunity to see famous people perform, especially when it's FREE.
Anyway, Fremont Street was PACKED. I could not move at all by the time the concert(s) started. Rex and I went with his friend Steven and my friend Shelley, and we had plans to meet up with some more people from Rex's PT school when we got down there. That didn't happen because his weirdo classmates decided to go to a strip club instead of to the concerts, but I digress. That doesn't really matter for my story. Anyway, it ended up just being me, Rex, Steven, and Shelley.
The thing about Shelley is that she's a middle aged guy magnet. It's really weird. I mean, okay, she's quite a bit older than us (47), but she got hit on A LOT. At one time in particular, we were watching Scotty McCreery perform (he won American Idol last year), and this really super-creeper guy started putting his arm around Shelley and hugging her and stuff. We were packed in like sardines, so she couldn't really move. Because the music was too loud to really talk, the guy typed out his number on his phone and held it up to Shelley. "THIS IS MY NUMBER," he yelled. She said no thanks, but he kept on bugging her. They had literally known each other for about thirty seconds (if you count "knowing" someone as being semi molested by them without even exchanging names, which I do not). She looked quite alarmed, so I turned to Rex and said, "I'm rescuing Shelley. We'll meet up with you later." I grabbed Shelley's arm and started shoving my way through the crowd to try to get away from the creepy guy. When we finally got far enough away, I said to Shelley, "That guy was WEIRD. I'm taking you to my favorite spot to get root beer floats." There is a casino on Fremont that sells $2 root beer floats, and they are delicious. I get one almost every time I go downtown. After waiting about a half an hour in line for my root beer float, I finally got to sit down. It was worth the wait. After about two minutes of sitting, Shelley was ready to go back out into the craziness.
We braved the crowds again, trying to find Rex and Steven. The crowds were pushing even tighter together, though, as people tried to press towards the stage to watch Luke Bryan perform. Finally we were just stuck. People were pressed into me on all sides, and I couldn't move. I could hardly breathe. I could see Rex and Steven about ten people away from where Shelley and I were, but there was no way that we could make it over to them. Rex and I gave each other a helpless wave and turned to watch the concert in our respective cramped spots. That is when Mr. Drunk Mexican entered the picture. He was in front of Shelley and I, but once he got a look at Shelley he decided to no longer pay attention to the concert. He turned around and started dancing with her. She tried to back away, but there was really nowhere to back up. The man's girlfriend/wife person put her arm around the guy and shot Shelley an evil look. Shelley leaned in toward the man and said, "You should dance with your wife...I think she's getting jealous." The man shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Whatever. She feels more like my sister. I don't really care." Wow...husband of the year award.
Just then, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Thinking it might be a text from Rex (we had been texting back and forth during the concert), I pulled out my phone to check. It was not Rex, but rather was a text from my coworker/kind of friend Amy. She knew we were going to the concert, and she texted to say, "Hope you guys are having fun!" I pulled out the keypad to reply. I started out by typing, "It's fun but it's CRAZY!" Just then Shelley's Mexican boyfriend grabbed my phone. "No texting! Just dancing!" he yelled. When I got my phone back I saw that a text had been sent to Amy reading something along the lines of, "It's fun but it's CRAZY! I litgfisdjhfiu7hhu." I hurried to send another text explaining about Mr. Mexico and that I had not been drinking, even though that text seemed to indicate otherwise. I swear all I had to drink was a root beer float...but Mexico was sending drunk texts from me! Ahhhhhh! As I tried to reply, Mexico grabbed my phone again and repeated his same instructions: "NO TEXTING! JUST DANCING!" Fearing more "drunk" texts from this man, I pocketed my phone and figured I would have to explain later. Just then, Shelley took her lip gloss out of her purse to apply a fresh coat. Her new bf snatched the applicator from her hand and started applying the lip gloss to her lips. CREEPY! She tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. She finally just succumbed to the psycho that was this night and allowed her new boyfriend to put lip gloss on her. He turned to try to put it on me, but I said no way. I think his wife was about to shoot him. I really don't blame her. Finally this guy got the grand idea to go buy Shelley and I a couple of beers. I said "Sure, thanks!" knowing that as soon as he made his way through the throngs of people, he would never find us again among the thousands of country fans. Perhaps that was a mean way of thinking, but oh well. It was his idea, and it got him away from us.
Shelley and I stood squished among the increasingly stinky people for a few more minutes when two guys started blazing a trail through the crowd. Now, I'm not trying to sound racist here, but the guys looked straight out of the HOOD. They were scary. I thought they were going to start shooting up the crowd. Anyway, people backed away from them pretty quickly, and they were actually able to move through the people. Shelley, being braver than I am, called, "LET'S GO!" and started trailing the gangsters as if we were with them. She had a good idea, as they passed almost right by Rex and Steven. Shelley and I were able to jump off of Train Ghetto and land right next to our friends. Whoo hoo!!
We quickly recounted our tales for the guys. They'd had their own version of crazy. Standing next to them was a HUGE man drinking from a two liter bottle of Orange Crush. I actually initially thought it was a 20 oz bottle, because that's just how massive this guy was. He was about the nerdiest guy you could imagine, with jean shorts up to his belly button and a black t-shirt soaked through with sweat. After each song (which he would sing emphatically and dance his heart out to), he would take out a sweat rag and wipe the sweat off of his face. EEEEEW! We got a video of Rex dancing with this guy - I will have to put it on facebook. I and the two guys behind me kept trying to convince Shelley that this man was her "true love" and that she should ask him out. BWAH HA! I even shoved her into the copious amounts of fat rolls that comprised his butt. I really hope she showered last night.
All in all, it was a really fun but crazy night. There are more concerts tonight. Rex, Shelley, and Steven want to go back, but I don't know if I'm ready to handle it... We shall see.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Eighth Grade Me
My job is fun. The eighth graders are going to have to do a final project called "The Future Project," where they do things such as researching professions, colleges, etc. to find out what they might want to do with their futures. They are going to put a bunch of different things on a display board (think the tri-fold science fair boards), and we are going to display all of their boards at the eighth grade graduation. Good idea, huh? Thanks. I thought of it myself. Anyway, I'm making an example board to show them before we even start the process so that they can see an example of the finished project. It's quite funny, actually...I'm sending letters to colleges pretending to be an eighth grader so I can see what kind of stuff I get back.
On the left side of their tri-fold board, the students are going to display two essays: "Who I Am Now," and "Who I Will Be in Fifteen Years." For my example board, I wrote two essays from the perspective of my eighth grade self. It was way too much fun, and I decided to share them with you here:
Who I Am Now:
My name is Christine Knasel. I am an eighth grade student at Kalamazoo Christian Middle School in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I am fourteen years old, and I guess you could say that I am a lot like other fourteen-year-old girls: I enjoy shopping, staying up late talking to my friends, playing volleyball, and wearing sparkly lip gloss.
My favorite subject is Language Arts. It is mostly my favorite subject because I love to read and write, but it is also my favorite subject because during Language Arts class I sit by this really cute guy named Andrew. I don’t think he likes me back, but oh well. I still like Language Arts. My proudest accomplishment this year was winning a writing contest put on by my local newspaper, The Kalamazoo Gazette. I wrote a short story called “All I Wanted Was Mountain Dew.” I got my story published in the paper, and I also won $25.
Here are a few of my other favorites: my favorite movie is Pirates of the Caribbean. My favorite book is Running Out of Time by Margaret Peterson Haddix. My favorite color is pink, and my favorite thing to do in my spare time is to write. A few things I hate are running, tomatoes, detention (which I have only ever had once), zits, that really bad perm that I got on my 14th birthday, spiders, and Andrew's girlfriend (but don’t tell her I said that).
All in all, eighth grade has been a great year. I would say that it’s been my best year ever. I love all of my friends, and I’m sure we will be friends forever. Bonds made in middle school will not ever be broken.
Who I Will Be in Fifteen Years:
In fifteen years, I will be married to an amazing guy. I will be twenty-nine years old, verging on that scary number thirty (when I will be practically old). It won’t really matter, though, because I will already be married, so that guy will have to like me even when I get old and wrinkly and senile and forget his name because I’m so old that I forget everything.
I will be a teacher, hopefully for middle school Language Arts, but I won’t live in Michigan anymore. Michigan is too cold. I want to move somewhere warmer where I can see palm trees every day. I have had fourteen years of snow, and that is enough for me. I am really sick of snow. Plus, I want to have three dogs, and walking them in the snow every day will be very annoying. Walking them next to palm trees will be fun. I will have a beagle, a pug, and a stray mutt that my husband and I found wandering the streets. We really only wanted two dogs, but we took in the third one because she was so pathetically cute. We will live in a nice house with our very own palm trees in front of it and a pool in the back yard.
Even though I love teaching, that doesn’t make very much money. Therefore, when I’m not teaching I will be writing books. By the time I’m twenty-nine I probably will not have achieved winning a Newberry Medal for children’s literature, but I will be well on my way. I will have published at least three books by then, and they just keep getting better and better. I’m sure my big break will come eventually, and I will definitely have the Newberry Medal by the time I am forty (another scary “old” number).
Life will be awesome, because when I’m twenty-nine I can do whatever I want. I will be able to drive, stay out as late as I want, make money and spend it on whatever I want, and eat junk food as often as I like. Sometimes I might even eat candy for breakfast just because I can. Being twenty-nine will be the best.
I hope you enjoyed those. They made me miss eighth grade a little bit. :-)
On the left side of their tri-fold board, the students are going to display two essays: "Who I Am Now," and "Who I Will Be in Fifteen Years." For my example board, I wrote two essays from the perspective of my eighth grade self. It was way too much fun, and I decided to share them with you here:
Who I Am Now:
My name is Christine Knasel. I am an eighth grade student at Kalamazoo Christian Middle School in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I am fourteen years old, and I guess you could say that I am a lot like other fourteen-year-old girls: I enjoy shopping, staying up late talking to my friends, playing volleyball, and wearing sparkly lip gloss.
My favorite subject is Language Arts. It is mostly my favorite subject because I love to read and write, but it is also my favorite subject because during Language Arts class I sit by this really cute guy named Andrew. I don’t think he likes me back, but oh well. I still like Language Arts. My proudest accomplishment this year was winning a writing contest put on by my local newspaper, The Kalamazoo Gazette. I wrote a short story called “All I Wanted Was Mountain Dew.” I got my story published in the paper, and I also won $25.
Here are a few of my other favorites: my favorite movie is Pirates of the Caribbean. My favorite book is Running Out of Time by Margaret Peterson Haddix. My favorite color is pink, and my favorite thing to do in my spare time is to write. A few things I hate are running, tomatoes, detention (which I have only ever had once), zits, that really bad perm that I got on my 14th birthday, spiders, and Andrew's girlfriend (but don’t tell her I said that).
All in all, eighth grade has been a great year. I would say that it’s been my best year ever. I love all of my friends, and I’m sure we will be friends forever. Bonds made in middle school will not ever be broken.
Who I Will Be in Fifteen Years:
In fifteen years, I will be married to an amazing guy. I will be twenty-nine years old, verging on that scary number thirty (when I will be practically old). It won’t really matter, though, because I will already be married, so that guy will have to like me even when I get old and wrinkly and senile and forget his name because I’m so old that I forget everything.
I will be a teacher, hopefully for middle school Language Arts, but I won’t live in Michigan anymore. Michigan is too cold. I want to move somewhere warmer where I can see palm trees every day. I have had fourteen years of snow, and that is enough for me. I am really sick of snow. Plus, I want to have three dogs, and walking them in the snow every day will be very annoying. Walking them next to palm trees will be fun. I will have a beagle, a pug, and a stray mutt that my husband and I found wandering the streets. We really only wanted two dogs, but we took in the third one because she was so pathetically cute. We will live in a nice house with our very own palm trees in front of it and a pool in the back yard.
Even though I love teaching, that doesn’t make very much money. Therefore, when I’m not teaching I will be writing books. By the time I’m twenty-nine I probably will not have achieved winning a Newberry Medal for children’s literature, but I will be well on my way. I will have published at least three books by then, and they just keep getting better and better. I’m sure my big break will come eventually, and I will definitely have the Newberry Medal by the time I am forty (another scary “old” number).
Life will be awesome, because when I’m twenty-nine I can do whatever I want. I will be able to drive, stay out as late as I want, make money and spend it on whatever I want, and eat junk food as often as I like. Sometimes I might even eat candy for breakfast just because I can. Being twenty-nine will be the best.
I hope you enjoyed those. They made me miss eighth grade a little bit. :-)
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Counterfeit Urine
I should really have known better than to try to cheat on a urine test.
I mean, honestly - I never cheated on spelling tests, math tests, or any other sort of tests. I never cheated on a boyfriend or on my husband...I'm really not the type to be labeled as a "cheater." Still, there I was yesterday at Quest Diagnostics, cramped in a tiny bathroom with orders to "go" in a little cup, and desperate times called for desperate measures. I cheated.
Let me begin by telling you that I wasn't working on a lot of brain power. I actually showed up at Quest Diagnostics for a blood test, and I was told by my doctor that I had to fast before the test. That meant that I hadn't had a single thing to eat since the night before, and I didn't go to Quest until after a full day of teaching middle schoolers (at a school which, ironically enough, is also called "Quest." It must be a Nevada thing). I was hungry and cranky and impatient.
I wouldn't have been so cranky and impatient if I hadn't been trying to get my blood drawn for the past TEN DAYS. I really shouldn't have to work too hard to get someone to poke my arm and drain fluids out of me. I have to admit, it's not something I was really motivated to work hard for.
For my first appointment, I drove around for a half an hour trying to find the place, and it was nowhere to be found. The blood draw appointments are only 10 minutes long, so I figured by the time I was 30 minutes late I had already missed my appointment and should just go home. That was quite the colossal waste of time. When I got home I immediately called to schedule a new appointment, but I decided to choose to make the appointment at the Quest location closer to my school. There's a Quest Diagnostics only 1.5 miles away from my school - what joy! That one would be much easier to find....right? So I made my appointment for the first available time they had, which was ten days after my original appointment.
Yesterday I set out to find the new Quest. Unfortunately, this one was just as difficult to find. I triple checked my directions from Google maps, and I could not figure out what I had done wrong. Determined to make this appointment so I didn't have to wait another ten days, I pulled over and walked into a local chiropractor's office to ask for directions.
Me: I know there's supposed to be a Quest Diagnostics around here...do you happen to know where it is?
Chiropractor: Oh yeah! Just go across the street to Home Depot, stand in their parking lot, look out towards the main road and then a little to the right, and you'll see it. I think. It's small.
Me: Ummm...okay, thanks.
I went across the street to Home Depot's parking lot, and the Quest Diagnostics was right where Mr. Chiropractor said it would be. That was so sneaky...there was no way to see the building from the main road. Do they call it "Quest Diagnostics" because you have to go on a quest to have any prayer of finding it? They should rename it "Stealth Ninja Diagnostics," because it's just that difficult to find.
As I trudged up the steps to Stealth Ninja Diagnostics, I was hungry and mad (and late for my appointment AGAIN). I walked in to the front desk and told them I was there to get my blood drawn. Of course, because this is my life and these things happen to me, they had no record of my appointment. AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!! I wanted to jump across the counter and strangle the lady, but I realized that it wasn't really her fault. I think she sensed my irritation (or RAGE), so she said they could see me as a "walk-in" patient. I wanted to scream, "YOU MADE ME WAIT TEN DAYS FOR AN APPOINTMENT WHEN YOU HAVE A WHOLE LIST OF WALK-INS?! I COULD HAVE HAD THESE RESULTS BY NOW!!!" But of course, it's a bad idea to make the person angry who is about to poke you with a needle. I said "thank you" with as much politeness as I could muster, and I sat down to wait.
When it was finally my turn, the lady called me back to the little cubicle where I would be giving up my blood. I noticed that the label on my tubes read, "Christine Webb: 2/2/1984." Still using every ounce of energy-that-I-didn't-have to try to be polite, I took a deep breath and said, "Um, not sure if this matters...but I was born in 1989, not 1984." She looked at the tube, surprised, and said, "Oh yeah, that kind of does matter." YOU THINK?! And I'm about to trust this woman near me with a needle? Heavens.
The lady left to print new labels and said that she'd "be right back." Ten minutes later, I was still sitting in the lonely cubicle. It was just me, the needles, and the collection tubes all chilling out and waiting to be united with one another. Finally the lady came back, looked surprised, and exclaimed, "Oh! You're still here!" Yes...you didn't draw my blood yet...so I'm still waiting. Unable to say anything polite, I just gave a wan smile. I think she sensed my irritation, because she decided to explain herself: "For some reason I thought I saw you in another cubicle, so I went down there. But it turns out you were just waiting here! Ha ha!" I wanted to reply with, "Do you frequently have patients just jumping around from cubicle to cubicle behind your back, as if you're in some sort of sick game of hide and go seek or tag, and when the 'it' person gets you then they take your blood?! Well, I don't have time for your phlebotomic fun. JUST TAKE MY BLOOD BEFORE I TAKE YOURS!" Even though I didn't say it, I think my weak attempt at a laugh warned this lady that she'd better get started. She took my blood, and I let out a sigh of relief. It was FINALLY time to leave (and get some food).
NOPE! PSYCH! Before I could go, crazy hide-n-seek phlebotomist said, "Oh, and we're going to need to get a urine sample." A urine sample?!?! Is she insane? Why does this woman hate me? I had no warning of this. If I have to give a urine sample, I usually pull a Juno and "drink my weight in Sunny D" before the appointment. I can't just go on command! Still, being locked up in the bathroom meant I was a safe distance from Ms. Crazy, so I figured I would give it a shot. The problem was, I really didn't have to go. I think I literally got two drops in the cup...way less than half a milliliter. I sat there trying to think of waterfalls...rivers...funny jokes...anything, but I really didn't have any more juice in me. I knew that the two drops in the cup were not going to be enough, and I did NOT want to go back to Stealth Ninja Diagnostics again anytime soon (or ever), so I knew I had to produce something.
This is where we get to the cheating part. I had to put something in that cup so they would let me go! Looking around suspiciously to make sure I wouldn't get caught (which, actually, was dumb in hindsight. Who's watching a bathroom?), I scooped up a bit of the toilet water into my cup. I tried not to get too much so that maybe my pee drops would still tint the color yellowish. I put the lid on, flushed (even though there was nothing to flush), washed my hands, and left the bathroom. I put my container in their "specimen" box, flashed Psycho a smile, and finally headed out the doors to freedom. I had cheated the system! Take THAT, you crazy needle woman! Test that fake pee! I bet there's nothing in it. See? I TOLD you I'm fine! Why did you want to test my urine, anyway?! We're looking at blood levels related to a pituitary tumor...so I made the executive decision that the urine test was unnecessary and would be okay if I tampered with it a little.
I should have known that was a bad idea. I mean, that plan is just dumb. I'm blaming it on the fact that I hadn't eaten all day and that my IQ is slowly descending to that of my middle schoolers because I'm around them so much. Anyway, about an hour later I get a voicemail from a far too chipper "Kristie at Quest Diagnostics!" asking me to call her back at my earliest convenience. Rex was concerned, thinking that perhaps they already got some results back and something terrible showed up. I didn't want him to worry, so I confessed my urinary sin. I said they probably figured out what I did. You can't get arrested for tampering with your own medical specimens, right?? I mean, RIGHT?!?!
I started to get a bit nervous. I called Kristie back, and she said that my urine sample was "insufficient" and that I would have to come give another sample. "Insufficient," "faked," "forged," "counterfeit"...whatever she wanted to call it, I was mad that my plan had been foiled. Also, knowing Stealth Ninja Diagnostics, they will have moved to an even more secret location by the time I go back. They will be even more difficult to find, and I'll have to wait another ten days for the opportunity to give a legitimate urine sample. I hate Kristie. I hate urine samples. Most of all, I hate Stealth Ninja Diagnostics. Just you wait, Stealth Ninja. I will get my revenge someday.
I mean, honestly - I never cheated on spelling tests, math tests, or any other sort of tests. I never cheated on a boyfriend or on my husband...I'm really not the type to be labeled as a "cheater." Still, there I was yesterday at Quest Diagnostics, cramped in a tiny bathroom with orders to "go" in a little cup, and desperate times called for desperate measures. I cheated.
Let me begin by telling you that I wasn't working on a lot of brain power. I actually showed up at Quest Diagnostics for a blood test, and I was told by my doctor that I had to fast before the test. That meant that I hadn't had a single thing to eat since the night before, and I didn't go to Quest until after a full day of teaching middle schoolers (at a school which, ironically enough, is also called "Quest." It must be a Nevada thing). I was hungry and cranky and impatient.
I wouldn't have been so cranky and impatient if I hadn't been trying to get my blood drawn for the past TEN DAYS. I really shouldn't have to work too hard to get someone to poke my arm and drain fluids out of me. I have to admit, it's not something I was really motivated to work hard for.
For my first appointment, I drove around for a half an hour trying to find the place, and it was nowhere to be found. The blood draw appointments are only 10 minutes long, so I figured by the time I was 30 minutes late I had already missed my appointment and should just go home. That was quite the colossal waste of time. When I got home I immediately called to schedule a new appointment, but I decided to choose to make the appointment at the Quest location closer to my school. There's a Quest Diagnostics only 1.5 miles away from my school - what joy! That one would be much easier to find....right? So I made my appointment for the first available time they had, which was ten days after my original appointment.
Yesterday I set out to find the new Quest. Unfortunately, this one was just as difficult to find. I triple checked my directions from Google maps, and I could not figure out what I had done wrong. Determined to make this appointment so I didn't have to wait another ten days, I pulled over and walked into a local chiropractor's office to ask for directions.
Me: I know there's supposed to be a Quest Diagnostics around here...do you happen to know where it is?
Chiropractor: Oh yeah! Just go across the street to Home Depot, stand in their parking lot, look out towards the main road and then a little to the right, and you'll see it. I think. It's small.
Me: Ummm...okay, thanks.
I went across the street to Home Depot's parking lot, and the Quest Diagnostics was right where Mr. Chiropractor said it would be. That was so sneaky...there was no way to see the building from the main road. Do they call it "Quest Diagnostics" because you have to go on a quest to have any prayer of finding it? They should rename it "Stealth Ninja Diagnostics," because it's just that difficult to find.
As I trudged up the steps to Stealth Ninja Diagnostics, I was hungry and mad (and late for my appointment AGAIN). I walked in to the front desk and told them I was there to get my blood drawn. Of course, because this is my life and these things happen to me, they had no record of my appointment. AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!! I wanted to jump across the counter and strangle the lady, but I realized that it wasn't really her fault. I think she sensed my irritation (or RAGE), so she said they could see me as a "walk-in" patient. I wanted to scream, "YOU MADE ME WAIT TEN DAYS FOR AN APPOINTMENT WHEN YOU HAVE A WHOLE LIST OF WALK-INS?! I COULD HAVE HAD THESE RESULTS BY NOW!!!" But of course, it's a bad idea to make the person angry who is about to poke you with a needle. I said "thank you" with as much politeness as I could muster, and I sat down to wait.
When it was finally my turn, the lady called me back to the little cubicle where I would be giving up my blood. I noticed that the label on my tubes read, "Christine Webb: 2/2/1984." Still using every ounce of energy-that-I-didn't-have to try to be polite, I took a deep breath and said, "Um, not sure if this matters...but I was born in 1989, not 1984." She looked at the tube, surprised, and said, "Oh yeah, that kind of does matter." YOU THINK?! And I'm about to trust this woman near me with a needle? Heavens.
The lady left to print new labels and said that she'd "be right back." Ten minutes later, I was still sitting in the lonely cubicle. It was just me, the needles, and the collection tubes all chilling out and waiting to be united with one another. Finally the lady came back, looked surprised, and exclaimed, "Oh! You're still here!" Yes...you didn't draw my blood yet...so I'm still waiting. Unable to say anything polite, I just gave a wan smile. I think she sensed my irritation, because she decided to explain herself: "For some reason I thought I saw you in another cubicle, so I went down there. But it turns out you were just waiting here! Ha ha!" I wanted to reply with, "Do you frequently have patients just jumping around from cubicle to cubicle behind your back, as if you're in some sort of sick game of hide and go seek or tag, and when the 'it' person gets you then they take your blood?! Well, I don't have time for your phlebotomic fun. JUST TAKE MY BLOOD BEFORE I TAKE YOURS!" Even though I didn't say it, I think my weak attempt at a laugh warned this lady that she'd better get started. She took my blood, and I let out a sigh of relief. It was FINALLY time to leave (and get some food).
NOPE! PSYCH! Before I could go, crazy hide-n-seek phlebotomist said, "Oh, and we're going to need to get a urine sample." A urine sample?!?! Is she insane? Why does this woman hate me? I had no warning of this. If I have to give a urine sample, I usually pull a Juno and "drink my weight in Sunny D" before the appointment. I can't just go on command! Still, being locked up in the bathroom meant I was a safe distance from Ms. Crazy, so I figured I would give it a shot. The problem was, I really didn't have to go. I think I literally got two drops in the cup...way less than half a milliliter. I sat there trying to think of waterfalls...rivers...funny jokes...anything, but I really didn't have any more juice in me. I knew that the two drops in the cup were not going to be enough, and I did NOT want to go back to Stealth Ninja Diagnostics again anytime soon (or ever), so I knew I had to produce something.
This is where we get to the cheating part. I had to put something in that cup so they would let me go! Looking around suspiciously to make sure I wouldn't get caught (which, actually, was dumb in hindsight. Who's watching a bathroom?), I scooped up a bit of the toilet water into my cup. I tried not to get too much so that maybe my pee drops would still tint the color yellowish. I put the lid on, flushed (even though there was nothing to flush), washed my hands, and left the bathroom. I put my container in their "specimen" box, flashed Psycho a smile, and finally headed out the doors to freedom. I had cheated the system! Take THAT, you crazy needle woman! Test that fake pee! I bet there's nothing in it. See? I TOLD you I'm fine! Why did you want to test my urine, anyway?! We're looking at blood levels related to a pituitary tumor...so I made the executive decision that the urine test was unnecessary and would be okay if I tampered with it a little.
I should have known that was a bad idea. I mean, that plan is just dumb. I'm blaming it on the fact that I hadn't eaten all day and that my IQ is slowly descending to that of my middle schoolers because I'm around them so much. Anyway, about an hour later I get a voicemail from a far too chipper "Kristie at Quest Diagnostics!" asking me to call her back at my earliest convenience. Rex was concerned, thinking that perhaps they already got some results back and something terrible showed up. I didn't want him to worry, so I confessed my urinary sin. I said they probably figured out what I did. You can't get arrested for tampering with your own medical specimens, right?? I mean, RIGHT?!?!
I started to get a bit nervous. I called Kristie back, and she said that my urine sample was "insufficient" and that I would have to come give another sample. "Insufficient," "faked," "forged," "counterfeit"...whatever she wanted to call it, I was mad that my plan had been foiled. Also, knowing Stealth Ninja Diagnostics, they will have moved to an even more secret location by the time I go back. They will be even more difficult to find, and I'll have to wait another ten days for the opportunity to give a legitimate urine sample. I hate Kristie. I hate urine samples. Most of all, I hate Stealth Ninja Diagnostics. Just you wait, Stealth Ninja. I will get my revenge someday.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Couch of Doom
Today started out like a pretty boring Saturday. I woke up and asked Rex what he was planning to do today. Answer? Studying (what's new?). I texted a few of my girlfriends to see if they wanted to go get nails done or something. Everyone was busy. At least I had our tradition of Saturday morning cinnamon rolls to look forward to...except - oh blast - I had forgotten to buy more and we were all out.
I sat down to wallow in my sorrows as I ate a bowl of increasingly soggy rice krispies, when suddenly something outside the window caught my eye. A man outside was carrying a small couch to the dumpster. I called Rex over, and we watched him carry it across the parking lot and set it right next to the dumpster. He pulled off the tan cushion and actually threw that INTO the dumpster. This couch was definitely abandoned. We gave each other a "oh-wow-it's-free-furniture!" look and said, "Let's go!"
We raced down to the dumpster to look at our prize. It wasn't really a couch, but it wasn't really a chair either. If a chair and a couch had a baby, it would have been this thing. I think sophisticated people would call it a "chaise lounge." It's the kind of thing that Egyptian princes used to lounge on while getting grapes fed to them. You get the idea. Anyway, the base was a beautiful chocolate brown leather that looked as if it were made to match our bed frame. The cushion was a tan suede that had a rip in the back side, but I would easily be able to sew that up. The couch/chair/lounge was in almost perfect condition, and to think someone was going to throw it away. GASP! We would rescue it.
Rex grabbed the base of the couch and I pulled the long cushion out of the dumpster. I picked off a sticky strawberry sucker stick that had gotten stuck to it (ew), but I didn't show Rex for fear he would say that the new prized furniture was too dirty and we couldn't keep it. OBVIOUSLY I was going to wash it before it assumed a place of permanence in our apartment. Still, I wish the man hadn't thrown the cushion in with all of the trash. That was kid of gross.
I really should have left the whole thing in the dumpster. The couch has been nothing but bad luck since we lugged it up the stairs to our apartment. First off, it didn't fit in the spot that I had planned for it on the right wall of our bedroom. Getting creative, I tried to fit it under our bedroom window so that I could lie on it and read books, but when Rex tried to move our bookshelf the entire bookshelf BROKE and books flew everywhere. Super. So after a half hour of repairing our bookshelf and putting the books back on, we still didn't have a home for our couch.
I was ready to throw it back in the dumpster when Rex suggested, "Why don't we put it on the porch?" Hmmmm... I considered the possibility. It would be really nice to have a comfy couch on the porch, but it wasn't really made to be "outdoor furniture." I relayed this concern to Rex, and he challenged me to think of the last time that it rained here. That's a very good point. We do live in the desert. I think I can count on one hand the number of times it has rained here since we moved in almost a year ago. People keep all sorts of water-unfriendly things on their porches. Treadmills, washers and dryers, etc. It really just doesn't rain. I said that it was a good idea, and we moved the couch to the porch. It actually matches the paint job on our porch quite well, and I had some fun sitting on it and reading outside today. I was just starting to think that this whole "free couch" thing was going to work out.
Elvis loves the couch. I'm pretty sure he thinks we got it just for him. I've tried to tell him not to pee on it, and for the most part he's paid attention. His one slip-up came at about lunchtime today, when he jumped up onto the back of the couch, lifted his leg, and peed THROUGH THE WINDOW SCREEN into our living room. Ahhhhhhhh! So yes, technically he followed the "no peeing on the couch rule," but now he peed in our living room. Gross. Then he proceeded to lick the window screen as if I had sprinkled it with lemonade. Dogs are weird.
I decided to leave the couch alone for a while, as it has caused more headaches than joy. You would not believe what happened when I came back inside. Would you like to guess? Go ahead - guess.
It started RAINING. We had just decided to keep the couch outside based on the fact that it NEVER rains here, and suddenly we're in a downpour. There are small rivers running through the parking lot. I could get a canoe and sail to the Strip. My poor new couch! I ran outside to cover it with a trash bag, but a trash bag didn't cover the whole thing so I laid on the parts that were still exposed so that I could shield the leather and suede from the torrents of destructive rain. This worked for a few minutes until Rex looked out the window and saw me curled around the couch like a mother hen protecting her eggs. "Christine, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" he inquired, alarmed. I told him that I was protecting our new couch (duh). He replied with, "We got that out of the GARBAGE. We didn't even pay anything for it! We can just throw it away if it gets ruined. Come inside and stop getting soaked for a piece of trash!"
My poor baby couch. It is so comfy. I want to keep it so badly. I could even sleep on it on cool summer nights (there are no bugs here, so it would be perfect). It seems like it's one piece of bad luck after another with this "couch of doom," though, so we'll see what happens with it. At the very least, it made for a more exciting Saturday than I had planned!
I sat down to wallow in my sorrows as I ate a bowl of increasingly soggy rice krispies, when suddenly something outside the window caught my eye. A man outside was carrying a small couch to the dumpster. I called Rex over, and we watched him carry it across the parking lot and set it right next to the dumpster. He pulled off the tan cushion and actually threw that INTO the dumpster. This couch was definitely abandoned. We gave each other a "oh-wow-it's-free-furniture!" look and said, "Let's go!"
We raced down to the dumpster to look at our prize. It wasn't really a couch, but it wasn't really a chair either. If a chair and a couch had a baby, it would have been this thing. I think sophisticated people would call it a "chaise lounge." It's the kind of thing that Egyptian princes used to lounge on while getting grapes fed to them. You get the idea. Anyway, the base was a beautiful chocolate brown leather that looked as if it were made to match our bed frame. The cushion was a tan suede that had a rip in the back side, but I would easily be able to sew that up. The couch/chair/lounge was in almost perfect condition, and to think someone was going to throw it away. GASP! We would rescue it.
Rex grabbed the base of the couch and I pulled the long cushion out of the dumpster. I picked off a sticky strawberry sucker stick that had gotten stuck to it (ew), but I didn't show Rex for fear he would say that the new prized furniture was too dirty and we couldn't keep it. OBVIOUSLY I was going to wash it before it assumed a place of permanence in our apartment. Still, I wish the man hadn't thrown the cushion in with all of the trash. That was kid of gross.
I really should have left the whole thing in the dumpster. The couch has been nothing but bad luck since we lugged it up the stairs to our apartment. First off, it didn't fit in the spot that I had planned for it on the right wall of our bedroom. Getting creative, I tried to fit it under our bedroom window so that I could lie on it and read books, but when Rex tried to move our bookshelf the entire bookshelf BROKE and books flew everywhere. Super. So after a half hour of repairing our bookshelf and putting the books back on, we still didn't have a home for our couch.
I was ready to throw it back in the dumpster when Rex suggested, "Why don't we put it on the porch?" Hmmmm... I considered the possibility. It would be really nice to have a comfy couch on the porch, but it wasn't really made to be "outdoor furniture." I relayed this concern to Rex, and he challenged me to think of the last time that it rained here. That's a very good point. We do live in the desert. I think I can count on one hand the number of times it has rained here since we moved in almost a year ago. People keep all sorts of water-unfriendly things on their porches. Treadmills, washers and dryers, etc. It really just doesn't rain. I said that it was a good idea, and we moved the couch to the porch. It actually matches the paint job on our porch quite well, and I had some fun sitting on it and reading outside today. I was just starting to think that this whole "free couch" thing was going to work out.
Elvis loves the couch. I'm pretty sure he thinks we got it just for him. I've tried to tell him not to pee on it, and for the most part he's paid attention. His one slip-up came at about lunchtime today, when he jumped up onto the back of the couch, lifted his leg, and peed THROUGH THE WINDOW SCREEN into our living room. Ahhhhhhhh! So yes, technically he followed the "no peeing on the couch rule," but now he peed in our living room. Gross. Then he proceeded to lick the window screen as if I had sprinkled it with lemonade. Dogs are weird.
I decided to leave the couch alone for a while, as it has caused more headaches than joy. You would not believe what happened when I came back inside. Would you like to guess? Go ahead - guess.
It started RAINING. We had just decided to keep the couch outside based on the fact that it NEVER rains here, and suddenly we're in a downpour. There are small rivers running through the parking lot. I could get a canoe and sail to the Strip. My poor new couch! I ran outside to cover it with a trash bag, but a trash bag didn't cover the whole thing so I laid on the parts that were still exposed so that I could shield the leather and suede from the torrents of destructive rain. This worked for a few minutes until Rex looked out the window and saw me curled around the couch like a mother hen protecting her eggs. "Christine, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" he inquired, alarmed. I told him that I was protecting our new couch (duh). He replied with, "We got that out of the GARBAGE. We didn't even pay anything for it! We can just throw it away if it gets ruined. Come inside and stop getting soaked for a piece of trash!"
My poor baby couch. It is so comfy. I want to keep it so badly. I could even sleep on it on cool summer nights (there are no bugs here, so it would be perfect). It seems like it's one piece of bad luck after another with this "couch of doom," though, so we'll see what happens with it. At the very least, it made for a more exciting Saturday than I had planned!
Student Stories
It's been two weeks since I've blogged. My humble apologies to my few but loyal readers. I have a fresh batch of student stories for you though...can you smell the drama? Mmmmmm...middle school.
1. I was teaching my students about inferences by playing a game called "fact, fact, inference." An example would be: FACT - the ground is wet. FACT - the sky is cloudy. Then the students would have to guess the "inference," which in this case would be that it has rained. I told my students to make up some of their own "fact, fact, inferences" to share with the class. When it came time to share, one girl was very excited so I called on her first. Here is what she said: "FACT: There are a lot of waffles flying around. FACT: there is debris everywhere." Some students raised their hands to guess, and she called on a boy from the opposite side of the room (so I know he hadn't seen her notebook). He got the answer right on the first try: "Inference: a Waffle House exploded." WHAT?!?!?! HOW DID HE GET THAT??? I thought no one was going to figure that one out. Weird kids.
2. One girl was very sad because she couldn't find her notebook for my class. I told her I would keep an eye out for it. The next day when she came to class, I asked if she had found her notebook yet. She responded with, "Oh yeah! It was in the oven," and went to go sit down as if that wasn't a weird thing to say at all. Her notebook was in the OVEN?! I asked her about it, and she said that she thinks her baby sister put it in there. Silly babies... I'm glad no one cooked the notebook!
3. A few seventh grade girls were talking about this guy in their class and how he's "so cute" and has a six pack and it so muscular and blah blah blah. A chunky boy from the class overheard them. He came up to me, patting his copious belly, and said "Here's what I don't get, Mrs. Webb. Why do girls want a six pack when they could have the entire keg?" BWAHAHAHAHAHA! I know that was an alcoholic reference and therefore inappropriate in school, but I couldn't help it. I laughed. Then I made sure to mention that I'm sure he was talking about a "root beer keg." Obviously.
4. One of my eighth grade girls was talking about how her mom used to be in a gang. Knowing this girl and knowing her mother, I have to say that the idea doesn't seem too unbelievable. Anyway, here's a quote from my student: "Yeah, my mom used to be real gangster. She had brass knuckles and beat people up and everything. She's turned her life around, though, so now she's just a gangster for the Lord." HA HA! I mean, the Lord could use some gangsters, right? I bet there's a Harley in heaven with her name on it.
5. Quote from an eighth grade boy: "Mrs. Webb, I just want you to know: some people think your teaching style is odd. I consider it to be REVOLUTIONARY!" Ha ha ha...glad someone's enjoying my class.
6. A sixth grade girl asked me what the word "wench" means (it was in our book). I was trying to explain it, quite unsuccessfully, when another girl made a connection for me: "Oh, so a 'wench' is pretty much an old fashioned hoochie mama?" Yes. Exactly. Please go home and tell your parents what you learned today.
7. I was teaching about the different perspectives books could be written in: 1st person, 2nd person, 3rd person regular, and 3rd person omniscient. I would read a paragraph, and then I would ask the students from which point of view that paragraph was written. I called on one of my boys, and he thought for a moment before saying, "It's 3rd person...and I'm pretty sure it's the Amish one." AMISH?!?! LOL! No, sir, it's "omniscient," not "amish." But of course for the rest of the class my kids referred to that point of view as the "amish one." They'd better not put that on the test!
Middle school is a crazy, crazy world. You should come visit sometime.
1. I was teaching my students about inferences by playing a game called "fact, fact, inference." An example would be: FACT - the ground is wet. FACT - the sky is cloudy. Then the students would have to guess the "inference," which in this case would be that it has rained. I told my students to make up some of their own "fact, fact, inferences" to share with the class. When it came time to share, one girl was very excited so I called on her first. Here is what she said: "FACT: There are a lot of waffles flying around. FACT: there is debris everywhere." Some students raised their hands to guess, and she called on a boy from the opposite side of the room (so I know he hadn't seen her notebook). He got the answer right on the first try: "Inference: a Waffle House exploded." WHAT?!?!?! HOW DID HE GET THAT??? I thought no one was going to figure that one out. Weird kids.
2. One girl was very sad because she couldn't find her notebook for my class. I told her I would keep an eye out for it. The next day when she came to class, I asked if she had found her notebook yet. She responded with, "Oh yeah! It was in the oven," and went to go sit down as if that wasn't a weird thing to say at all. Her notebook was in the OVEN?! I asked her about it, and she said that she thinks her baby sister put it in there. Silly babies... I'm glad no one cooked the notebook!
3. A few seventh grade girls were talking about this guy in their class and how he's "so cute" and has a six pack and it so muscular and blah blah blah. A chunky boy from the class overheard them. He came up to me, patting his copious belly, and said "Here's what I don't get, Mrs. Webb. Why do girls want a six pack when they could have the entire keg?" BWAHAHAHAHAHA! I know that was an alcoholic reference and therefore inappropriate in school, but I couldn't help it. I laughed. Then I made sure to mention that I'm sure he was talking about a "root beer keg." Obviously.
4. One of my eighth grade girls was talking about how her mom used to be in a gang. Knowing this girl and knowing her mother, I have to say that the idea doesn't seem too unbelievable. Anyway, here's a quote from my student: "Yeah, my mom used to be real gangster. She had brass knuckles and beat people up and everything. She's turned her life around, though, so now she's just a gangster for the Lord." HA HA! I mean, the Lord could use some gangsters, right? I bet there's a Harley in heaven with her name on it.
5. Quote from an eighth grade boy: "Mrs. Webb, I just want you to know: some people think your teaching style is odd. I consider it to be REVOLUTIONARY!" Ha ha ha...glad someone's enjoying my class.
6. A sixth grade girl asked me what the word "wench" means (it was in our book). I was trying to explain it, quite unsuccessfully, when another girl made a connection for me: "Oh, so a 'wench' is pretty much an old fashioned hoochie mama?" Yes. Exactly. Please go home and tell your parents what you learned today.
7. I was teaching about the different perspectives books could be written in: 1st person, 2nd person, 3rd person regular, and 3rd person omniscient. I would read a paragraph, and then I would ask the students from which point of view that paragraph was written. I called on one of my boys, and he thought for a moment before saying, "It's 3rd person...and I'm pretty sure it's the Amish one." AMISH?!?! LOL! No, sir, it's "omniscient," not "amish." But of course for the rest of the class my kids referred to that point of view as the "amish one." They'd better not put that on the test!
Middle school is a crazy, crazy world. You should come visit sometime.
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